A Fearful Unity
by Black Swan Tales
Summary: Young women are vanishing. The Scottish police worry there's a serial killer skulking in the Highlands, but local residents are blaming the Kelpie, a seductive spirit who drowns its victims. Mulder & Scully find themselves sorting through a dizzying array of folklore and forensic evidence, knowing only that nothing is what it seems, and the next victim has already been targeted...
1. Without Mercy

**Summary:** Young women have been vanishing from the same loch for months, all without a trace. The Scottish police think there's a serial killer skulking in the Highlands, but some local residents are blaming the Kelpie, a seductive spirit who appears as a man or a horse. Soon Mulder and Scully find themselves sorting through a dizzying array of folklore and forensic evidence, knowing only that nothing is what it seems, and the next victim has already been targeted...

 **Author's Introductory Note:** This novel-length story is the first fan fiction I ever wrote. It was completed years ago (18 chapters plus an epilogue) but never published. Now that the X-Files is briefly back on TV it seems like the perfect time to dust this off, fill in a few plot-holes, polish the rest, and hope for the best. Maybe some folks will enjoy the ride despite a few flaws here and there.

This X-File is an in-canon case file, Monster-of-the-Week type, with some UST. The setting is Scottish Highlands in October 1998, shortly after the first episode of season six (The Beginning). Consider this first chapter the typical, pre-titles teaser.

 **Disclaimer:** The standard. Scully, Mulder, Skinner, Kersch,  & the Scully Clan all belong to 10-13 Productions. I am not profiting from this exercise in any material way. All other characters aside from the few listed above are entirely my creations and belong to me. Any similarity to actual people or events is a coincidence.

* * *

 _"Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,  
Alone and palely loitering;  
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,  
And no birds sing._

 _Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,  
So haggard and so woe-begone?"_

 _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_

 _—_ _John Keats—_

* * *

Without Mercy

* * *

.

 **Loch Gnathaigh,  
Scottish Highlands**  
 **16 September 1998**

A brisk September breeze plucked at her clothing, whipped long strands of reddish gold hair into her eyes, and beat white-capped waves into the surface of the loch. She lifted a hand to her face, pulling her hair back and shading moss-green eyes with one economic gesture. Roiling cumulus clouds hurried across the sky, casting their shadows in a patchwork of light and darkness that rippled across the moor. The wind sang in her ears, danced over the heather, stirred silvery leaves into unsettled whispering. She breathed in the scent of heather, peat, lake and sky, and found it easy to believe, as the ancient Celts had, that the very air was alive.

Standing on the mucky shores of Loch Gnathaigh, Eva Campbell gazed over the water, over the rustling grass and heather that carpeted the moor, over the low, sweeping hills to the mountains of Glen Coe, and felt something within her stirring in reply. She felt at home.

That was strange, because she'd never been here before. Her parents had emigrated to the United States over twenty years ago, taking four-year-old Eva out of Glasgow and across the sea to Chicago. From there they'd moved to tiny Kelso in Washington State which, her father assured her, was as close to living in the Highlands as one could get. And he should know, Eva mused with a wry chuckle, having seen very little of the Highlands himself except in postcards. Now that she'd experienced the real thing, Eva acknowledged that Kelso bore as much resemblance to the untamed beauty of the Highlands as a rain forest to the Sahara. And if her poor, homesick parents had ever been to Glen Coe, or to Rannoch Muir, they never would have settled for Kelso — never would have left Scotland at all.

She'd never been here before, but familiarity sang in her blood and brought tears to her eyes.

Okay, so it was the _wind_ that was bringing tears to her eyes, Eva amended. She twisted that thick hank of curling russet hair she held into a loose knot before stuffing it into the collar of her shirt. Once her hands were free she wrapped her woolen sweater more closely about herself in defense against the September chill.

The ache in her throat, however, the indescribable _awe_ she felt in this place, could not be blamed on the wind. Something on the Moor, some essence of the loch itself, called to her in a language she could not understand but recognized nonetheless. The language was that of her ancestors. This, despite the fact that Campbells had never lived on the Moor; indeed, Campbells hadn't lived anywhere near here in over two hundred fifty years. Traditional Campbell lands lay to the southeast and those lands had passed into Murray hands by the time of Culloden in 1745.

That didn't matter. This was Scotland; this was the _Highlands_. And Eva was a Scot. Regardless of where she lived, the Highlands would always be "home." She supposed that was why her father convinced himself that Kelso was an adequate substitute for this... Standing here on the shores of the loch, she thought she could taste history. She was one with the past in this place that existed outside the passage of time.

Rannoch Muir.

Gaelic for watery bracken region —literally it meant Sea of Bracken— the Moor was once thought to be haunted, inhabited by fairies and ghosts, kelpies and water spirits. In later years it was home to bandits, the hiding place of Rob Roy MacGregor and other outlaws. Now its rolling hills and peat bogs made up the largest and last wilderness left in Britain. One lone highway wound from Glen Coe through the moor on its way south. The highway offered lookout points and sandwich trucks —lorries, the locals called them— but it was a tame, sterile experience. Eva had wanted to feel the land. So she'd left her rented car behind and walked over the only public footpath leading to Loch Gnathaigh at the heart of the Moor.

She'd kept the footpath within sight as she left it to hike over the spongy ground and wander along the shore of Loch Gnathaigh. The crystalline lake lay serenely azure under a turbulent Highland sky, mirror-smooth during those moments when the wind was calm, alive with ripples when it was not. A line of trees stood on one side of the shore, clinging to life in the only place that would tolerate them. They persisted in the moist soil despite the wind-swept moor's lack of hospitality.

Her knapsack lay several yards away, on firmer ground. She picked her way carefully through slick mud and slimy rocks, wandering along the shores in search of wildlife. A mournful cry overhead pulled her gaze up to the sky. The eagle soared on an invisible thermal, circling and wheeling in search of prey. Its sudden swoop to the ground made Eva's heart nearly stop. As she watched, breathless, it caught the hapless rabbit and shot back into the air again with its meal. She felt a fleeting sympathy for the screaming rodent, even as she understood that all life existed at the expense of something else. Leaves shivered as another breeze shook them. She thought she heard a voice in the wind, a mournful cry wailing across the heather and keening through the trees, and it made her shiver with the leaves. When she looked up again, the eagle was gone. The grieving wind died away to an eerie calm.

A glance at her watch told Eva she should be going too. She'd walked for two hours to reach the shore of this, the _Haunted Lake_. It would take her two hours more to return to the rented Peugeot waiting by the highway. With a regretful sigh, she turned away from the water and carefully made her way back to her forgotten knapsack.

"Are ye leaving so soon, then?"

Eva dropped the pack and whirled around in astonishment as the speaker's words carried to her. Only a moment ago she would have sworn that she was the only person there! He was standing on the shore of the loch, just a few feet from where she herself had stood. Uneasily she wondered where he'd come from. There was nowhere to hide on the flat moor. Her eyes darted to the trees. Had he been concealed there all along? How had he covered the distance between the trees and the stones where he stood now in so short a time, then? And without making a sound!

"I have to head back now," she answered cautiously. "They'll be expecting me for supper." That wasn't strictly true, but she wanted him to think that she'd be missed if she was delayed for too long.

Instinct was telling her not to trust, but curiosity was holding her pinned because she wondered just exactly where he'd come from.

" 'Tis a shame, that," he replied. He stepped away from the murky shore, moving over treacherous stone and sod with an ease born of intimate familiarity.

Eva watched his approach warily. There was nothing specific about him that spoke to her of threat, yet his mysterious presence made her quite uneasy. She stood very still, waiting as a deer waits to see what the wolf will do.

He was dressed simply if old-fashioned, wearing a white linen shirt and tightly fitting tan breeches. Thick chestnut hair was swept back from a high, flat forehead. Midnight-dark eyes framed a straight aquiline nose that slashed between dark, even brows. Full lips twisted upwards at the corners in a disarming grin. It was only his sudden appearance that had her on her guard, she assured herself.

"I'd hoped to have a word with ye," he continued.

Up close he was breathtaking. Long, graceful limbs, well-muscled shoulders, a fluid stride — Eva wondered if such a man had ever existed outside of fantasy. She had never seen anything like him before. He stopped walking and stood there, assessing her as she assessed him. When looking into those mysterious black eyes she felt herself drowning in their depths. The earth slowly began to revolve as Eva stood rooted to the spot. A humming sounded in her ears, the rushing of blood filled her head. Or was it the wind? She shook her head slightly, feeling a bizarre lethargy seeping into her bones.

"Such a bonny lass," he murmured.

Only that wasn't what he said. " _Ta an cailin sceimh_." Eva realized it with a start that broke through the haze filling her head. He'd spoken to her in Gaelic — and she'd understood every word. She tried to look away from him, but was hopelessly mired in those coal-black eyes. She shivered, felt her will slipping away.

"I— What?" Eva put a shaking hand up to her head, trying to think through the fog spreading in her brain. Try as she might, she could not look away from him. He held her captive; with just his eyes he had her at his mercy. "I have to go," she repeated desperately.

"Don't go," he whispered.

A brisk wind rose off the moor and blew her hair into her eyes, momentarily blinding her. It was curiously just enough to release her from the spell that had paralyzed her. She staggered back a step, tripped over the forgotten knapsack. Trembling, terrified, she tried to run, turned to dash over the lumpy turf.

With inhuman speed he snagged her arm and held her there. "Wait. Bide awhile with me."

"Let me go," Eva sobbed. But as quickly as the fear spiked, his burring plea melted it away again.

"Come back with me."

He was so close now. He smelled of peat and sod, earth and sky. She jerked against the grip on her arm, flinched at the hand that tilted her face up to his. Compelled to look into his inky eyes once more, Eva shuddered at what she saw in them. The water ... the heather ... the past ... her future... He was the moor itself. He was the loch. He was Scotland. And he wanted her to go with him. Home, to the loch.

"Come home with me." It was a plea she could not ignore, laced as it was with unspeakable sadness and loss. In spite of herself, Eva experienced a deep sorrow that penetrated all the way to her soul and weakened her resolve to escape. How could she inflict more pain on a man who had already suffered so much?

They were moving, both of them together, over the rough sod, over heather and clumps of grass, toward the loch. Eva's feet slipped on stones and mud, her shoes soaking from the water lapping on the shore. He did not have to watch his steps, so well did he know the loch. The frigid water rose above her ankles, sent chills coursing along her spine. Soft splashing sounds swirled around her knees as they moved together into the loch.

Eva was trembling from the cold now as much as from fear. Instinctively she knew that he would take her to the center of the bog, to the very depths of the loch. She would drown, just as she was drowning now, and she was powerless to stop it. Water swelled around her waist, and still he led her deeper. It rose to her chest, past her shoulders, splashed at her chin. Trembling gave way to numbness, an apathy so profound that Eva no longer cared when the icy loch closed over her nose and she ceased to breathe.

The last thing she saw was his eyes, ancient as the Highlands.


	2. An Eye for Mystery

**Author's Note:** For those who left reviews, thank you so much!

Getting Mulder and Scully onto a Scottish missing persons case requires a little stretching-of-reality and some hand-waving. The real FBI does assist foreign law enforcement offices and has Legat offices in major cities around the world, so this scenario isn't utterly far-fetched. It's just ... highly unlikely.

Then again, so are Kelpies. ;)

* * *

 _If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,  
Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,  
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,  
"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"?_

 _Afterwards_

 _—Thoma_ _s Hardy—_

* * *

An Eye for Mystery

* * *

.

 **US Naval Memorial  
Washington, DC  
6 October 1998**

It was unseasonably warm.

Bright sunlight burned down on Pennsylvania Avenue, sparkling off the windows of the Department of Justice Building on his right. The tall, greyhound of a man wore a tailored grey suit, his clothes and shoes impeccably arranged. In seeming defiance, his boldly patterned tie flapped rebelliously in the playful afternoon breeze, dancing around his shoulders like a naughty child. Light brown hair rippled its encouragement over his head. Hazel eyes squinted as he crossed a side street against the light, occupied solely with finding the object of his expedition.

Well, that, and the heat prickling his shoulders as the sun glared down disapprovingly on any fool coming out here wearing wool.

"Shoulda left my jacket in the office." Muttering this to no one, the man shook his head at the lapse in preparedness, as if he'd forgotten who his partner was and where she was most likely to be during a free moment. He passed a fine restaurant with white linen on the tables, somewhere he'd never be able to afford, and there in front of him was the modest park he was seeking.

On a hot sunny day like this one, that's where he was going to find her.

Only a few years old, the Naval Memorial was a circular globe pattern set into cement and ringed with fountains and pictorial plaques. Twin masts bearing US military flags marked the breaks in the fountains ringing the central plaza. Executives, lawyers, lobbyists and government clerks sat in small clusters on the steps leading into the heart of the memorial, their sack lunches spread out between them as they ate and decided the fate of their respective worlds. They all looked the same as he did — tailored, neat, uniformly dull.

He recognized the similarity even as he curled his lip at the thought of being mistaken for one of them.

His eyes scanned over the well-dressed strangers, discarding one after another until they settled on one smooth cap of coppery hair. She was sitting apart from the others, her bright head lowered over a slim stack of papers in her lap. Behind her water gurgled over a series of cascading waterfalls, artfully designed to produce a rush of soothing white noise while minimizing the risk of splashing executive finery. Her ivory brow rippled at something she'd read, then smoothed out again. As he watched she raised her eyes from the page and gazed absently across the plaza. Plainly she was looking at the sculpture on the other side, the one of the young sailor just putting out to sea, but her thoughts were probably somewhere else entirely.

Or maybe not.

He wondered if that bronze figure was the reason she came here so often. Surely it brought back comforting memories of her father. He remembered, too, her telling him once that she loved the sound of moving water. The fountains here were almost loud enough to drown out the scream of jets taking off from National Airport just a couple of miles away, so maybe that was the reason. That, and the fact that the Memorial was so very close to their office. His speculation dwindled as he approached her, not really something he wanted to waste his mental energies on. The reasons why she should prefer a particular location to visit in her free time were her own. Of course, as long as she continued to select the same place day after day, that made the task of tracking her down that much easier for him.

"Thought I might find you here."

Dana Scully glanced up at him with unruffled composure, not at all surprised to see him standing there. Picking up the coffee languishing at her side, she let him know without a word that he was welcome to join her. So Fox Mulder took a seat next to his partner and stretched out his legs with a contented sigh. Now, in addition to his heat-prickled shoulders, the sun found cause to attack his legs as well.

"Nice weather today," he observed casually. Inwardly he was cursing the existence of sun, sheep and J. Edgar Hoover's love affair with men clad in worsted wool.

His companion leaned back to rest against the cool granite edge of the fountain, a noncommittal sound coming from the back of her throat as she settled herself in.

"Did you have a good lunch?"

"Umm humm." She took a sip of the tepid coffee, using the action as a punctuation.

"What did you have?"

The question caught her off guard. Somehow the inquiry seemed too personal, though she could not have said why she thought so. Considering for a moment before answering, she finally shrugged. "A tuna sandwich and an apple."

"Oh. Sounds good."

She smiled at the lie.

Scully hadn't failed to notice the manila folder with red lettering he held in his left hand, but opted not to inquire about it just yet. He'd show it to her as soon as he'd determined that all the required pleasantries had been duly met, and with remarks upon weather and food out of the way, that left one final inquiry remaining. Etiquette was not a thing to fret over, Mulder would say, but even he understood the value of it. Her lips curved in a smile. That he should take such pains today to stay on her good side, after so many years and so many not-so-politic moments between them, could only mean he was about to propose something outrageous. And he wanted her cooperation.

"You got any plans for the weekend?"

She nearly choked on another sip of coffee. When was the last time he'd asked her about her personal life? He must really, _really_ need her to go along with whatever he was working up the courage to ask her! Scully began to wonder about the contents of that file. Fighting back a self-mocking chuckle, she bit her lip, keeping up the pretense that their small-talk was just that — two ordinary people passing the time during their lunch hour.

"It's Tuesday, Mulder. I haven't planned that far ahead yet."

"Why not?"

She answered with a why-do-you-think smirk.

He knew she could have said, _because I work with you, Mulder, and any time I try to make plans you come up with something that'll break 'em,_ and so he was grateful that she didn't say what she was plainly thinking, that she spared him the verbalization of it. Whatever hopes his partner had for a normal life could not be realized while she worked with him, and as always, the burden of what their partnership was costing her weighed heavily.

Seeing the shadow pass over his features she sighed, felt compassion seeping in as it so often did when she was dealing with him. Life with Mulder was never easy, but she didn't need to add to the already precarious load of guilt he perpetually carried around with him. Her lack of a life was of her own choosing, in no way his fault. Sometimes she forgot he didn't understand that he wasn't responsible for everything that happened to her. Every now and then she had to spell it out all over again, but for the moment Scully wanted to forgo the spelling session. To that end, she lightened the moment with a self-deprecating grin. "No plans. Just the regular stuff."

"What's the 'regular stuff?' "

"Oh, you know: cleaning house, unpacking winter clothes, catching up on some reading. Nothing exciting."

"Mm." He winced as if in sympathy.

She glanced at him sideways, curious despite herself. "How about you?"

"I figure I'll kick back, watch a few videos, maybe make a few phone calls."

"Those videos you told me weren't yours?" she jabbed playfully.

He straightened his spine sharply, cleared his throat. "Not those. I have some stuff I recorded off the Discovery Channel that looked interesting."

"So, the truth finally comes out," she accused. "You watch it too."

"Not as good as the Daily Globe when it comes to alien abduction stories, but their shows on the paranormal are pretty interesting."

"I wouldn't know."

"You don't know what you're missing, then," he enthused. "There's one in particular that I'm looking forward to watching. It's about some paintings they've discovered in Turkey that seem to indicate the earth was visited by aliens over eight thousand years ago."

"The things you'll do for entertainment..." Her smile was indulgent. Scully rested her head against the granite again and basked in the heat, letting the rush of the water soothe her into preparation for his inevitable proposal.

Content merely to be sitting beside her, Mulder watched some of the lunch crowd gathering up their brown paper bags and discarded plastic sandwich wraps, brushing crumbs from impeccable laps and smoothing already perfectly coifed hair. The sun pressed warm on his face, brought out delicate beads of dew on his skin. When he glanced over at his dozing partner he saw that her pale skin was dry. She always took the heat better than he did.

That thought provoked an affectionate grin. Keeping cool under pressure was Scully's specialty. She'd saved his behind with her quick thinking and polished diplomacy so often that he'd finally gotten enough sense to just shut up and let her do the talking when things got rough. It hadn't hurt that Walter Skinner had developed a seriously tender spot where she was concerned, either. If she only knew the power she'd had over her own boss, he mused.

Well, _former_ boss.

Mulder sighed.

Would she be able to do it again? Assistant Director Kersch had thus far proven impervious to her subtle charm, but Mulder was hoping she could somehow worm her way into the affections of their stern new supervisor. Or if not that, at least earn his admiration and respect. Things would be so much easier for the both of them if she could work her magic and soften Kersch up a little bit.

He let his eyes drift over her familiar features—the delicate Roman nose, the finely arched auburn eyebrows, those too-perfect lips. Her face was much thinner than it used to be, he observed wistfully. She still hadn't completely recovered from the cancer that had nearly conquered her last year, and her weight remained less than it had been before the illness. He watched her eyes jumping slightly under paper-thin lids and thought she must have drifted off.

"Scully? You awake?"

Her eyes stayed closed. "Do I have to be?"

"This isn't Mexico," he teased. "You don't get a siesta after lunch."

Her lips quirked. "I'm resting my eyes."

"Resting your eyes?"

"My dad always used to say that."

"I think everyone's dad used to say that," he pointed out. "And everyone knows it's a line of bull."

The lids flickered open briefly, revealing a Peacock-blue gaze that pierced him right through. Always. She reproached him with a single glance before closing her eyes again. Defiantly, her head tilted further back to catch the rays of the sun.

He grinned, leaning his own head against the granite and letting the warmth soak into him. Maybe she was onto something here. His thoughts wandered aimlessly, floating at the surface of his consciousness like leaves on a pond. Laughter rang out from a group of women sitting nearby. A jet roared overhead. Somewhere a seagull sent up a desperate cry. Across the plaza the bronze sailor stood huddled against a bitter wind, his wary eyes focused on an uncertain future. _I know how that feels_ , Mulder thought.

Before he could explore that thought further, three deep-throated bells rang out. Their rich tones floated over the Memorial and across the city, marking the hour. He peaked at his watch, confirming what St. Patrick's was already telling him. "Lunch time's over, Scully."

She groaned and lifted her head reluctantly, murmuring, "Too soon."

"We can stay out here a while longer if you like," he offered too generously.

"In exchange for...?"

"I wanted to show you something." He finally lifted the mysterious file and wagged it at her.

"I figured," she conceded. "What is it?"

"See for yourself."

Taking the folder and opening it, Scully's eyes scanned the top page. The police report was brief and vague, a missing persons incident with nothing to go on. She looked at the jurisdiction printed at the top of the page, one brow shooting up when she spotted the word _Scotland_ there. Under that was a summary of physical evidence found —not much— and interviews conducted: two. Then a follow-up report stated that the missing woman could not be found, and the case would not be pursued further unless more evidence or a solid lead turned up. The final sheet of paper was a formal request for intercession, a desperate plea from heartbroken parents who refused to believe their daughter had vanished without a trace. They wanted someone to investigate, someone who would get results. They wanted the FBI to find their daughter. And since they were US citizens, their daughter a possible victim of the crime of kidnapping, the FBI was going to look into it.

Scully looked to her partner. "This isn't what I was expecting."

He tugged a bag of sunflower seeds out of his pocket, grinning at her bemused expression. "What's a' matter, Scully? Too mundane for your tastes?"

"Where's the ' _paranormal bouquet_ ' you're so fond of? This looks like a straight-forward missing persons case."

 _In Scotland._

"We don't do the paranormal anymore, remember?" He snapped a seed between his teeth, gestured toward the hulking brown building standing one block west of them. "Strictly by-the-book investigating from now on. Background checks. Missing persons. Lost dogs. Important stuff."

She rolled her eyes. "Where did this come from? Kersch?"

"Sort of. I saw it on his desk this morning and sneaked a peak at it. He caught me in the act and assigned us to it as punishment."

 _Middle-of-nowhere_ Scotland, to be exact. And yet, for a punishment...? "You don't look very distressed."

"I made it a point to appear appropriately chastened when he yelled at me. Did you happen to notice where Eva Campbell disappeared from?"

Scully flipped open the file once again, searched the police report for the answer. "Says here a small lake near Glen Coe."

"The Glen of Weeping. Know what happened in Glen Coe, Scully?"

"Who doesn't? Some Campbells rose up against their hosts, the MacDonalds, and slaughtered half the clan one cold February dawn."

"Technically, there were about a dozen Campbells among a military garrison temporarily quartered with the MacDonalds. On the 13th of February 1692 they executed their orders to kill the entire MacDonald clan because the Chief of the clan had not given an oath of fealty to King William III by the deadline of January 1st that year. Of over 300 clansmen, only 38 were killed — hardly 'half the clan.' But the fact that Captain Campbell turned on his hosts after staying with them for ten days was the real scandal."

"Is there a point to this history lesson?"

"Happen to notice our victim's name?"

"Campbell." She laughed. "You can't be serious! That happened over three hundred years ago."

"You've heard of the Hatfields and the McCoys. Maybe some Scotsman is holding an incredibly long grudge." He shrugged, then smiled ruefully. "Well, look on the bright side. It's more interesting than what we've been doing lately, and it won't get us into trouble. It'll be like a vacation."

"I guess I'll have to start unpacking those winter clothes tonight."

"Aye, lassie. 'Cause we fly tae Bonny Auld Scotland on the morrow."

Laughing, Scully lightly shoved her partner and his waggling eyebrows away. "Oh, that's terrible."

.

 **Glasgow, Scotland  
7 October 1998**

It turned out driving in Scotland was a far worse experience than Mulder's mangling of a Scottish brogue.

The first thing she noted about Scotland was the fact that everyone drove on the wrong side of the road (of course, the surly gentleman at the car rental counter had insisted they had the right of it and the entire rest of the world was wrong). Worse still, they drove on the wrong side of the car. Not that Scully was the type of person to antagonize an entire nation over how they chose to do things but the 'wrongness' of driving on the left side did make for a rather stressful first afternoon as Mulder adapted to shifting gears opposite of expectation and tangled roads that only a drunken cow could have 'planned.'

"When in Rome, Scully." Mulder grimaced, gripping the stick shift awkwardly in his left hand and Scully, riding shot-gun, found herself in the ridiculous position of looking at him sideways ... from her right. It just felt wrong.

"Glasgow," she corrected.

"Right. Because we're _never_ getting out of here."

Biting back a smile, his partner in all things returned her attention to the road map that was proving less than adaptable to their on-the-street experience. Unhelpfully, she noted, "We need the M-8."

"Yeah, but does that mean heading towards Paisley, Dumbarton, Kilmarnok, Stirling, or Falkirk?" These names flashed by on signs planted randomly at the edges of an enormous round-about where cars whirled and eddied in and out, and taking a wrong spoke outwards ensured they'd never return to this particular cross-roads again. (They knew this by now thanks to three previously dizzy experiences involving wrong-way-after-all ejections from traffic circles.)

"Well, uh, where's Kilmarnok...?"

"Look on the map."

"It's not on the map."

"Well then, which way should I go?"

The signs buzzed by again, while Scully frowned over the paper in her effort to track which towns lay along their desired route to the western Highlands. "Northwest."

"Which way is that?"

Gloomy, sunless skies certainly weren't helping her orienteering skills. "Maybe we should ask for help."

"Who are we going to ask? I can't even figure out how to get off this merry-go-round."

"Technically, it's a traffic circle."

He growled.

She chuckled. "You're the one who wanted this case..."

It took them two more hours to get out of Glasgow and by the time they stumbled into a humble Bed and Breakfast in Onich that evening, Scully wasn't chuckling any longer. Stowing their luggage into cramped rooms made out of converted garret attics, the partners trudged wearily into a pub across the street and ate silently enough that the server asked how long they'd been married.

"Five years," Mulder muttered.

"Almost six."

Raising a brow, he nodded her direction. "Every minute a match made in heaven, honey."

"You surprise me, darling. I was sure you were going to say hell..." But lest the server walk away thinking theirs was an unhappy union, Scully softened the tease with an affectionate smile.


	3. Dreamer

**Author's Note:** Two things.

First, I wrote this back in the beginning of my writing endeavors, long before I learned that most freshmen writers throw in unnecessary 'dream sequences' so I didn't know it was 'cliché' at the time I decided to make dreams a pivotal plot point. Ah well, since then I've grown enough as a writer to unabashedly publish a cliché with my own, original spin.

Second, the thing with the door actually happened my first night in the Highlands (yes, I've been there!). Too bad I didn't have a Mulder there to rescue me.

Oh, wait, _three_ things! Thanks to all of you who are reading this story. I hope you enjoy the turns that are coming...

* * *

 _"What's the matter with our ways  
_ _I'm missing something,_ _not to blame_  
 _But don't you worry,_ _this will pass_  
 _It's only 'cause my mind's_ _been spinning_  
 _No control,_ _I've lost my head_  
 _All of this is just beginning_  
 _Not enough,_ _it's never enough_  
 _I'll only want to keep on dreaming."_

Dreamer

—Uh Huh Her—

* * *

Dreamer

* * *

.

 **Onich, Scotland  
8 October 1998**

 _Cold._ Her sleeping bag was useless. She thought about getting up and pulling a coat out of her canvass bag but didn't want to brave the tent's frigid environment even long enough for that. Trying instead to snuggle closer to Melissa, young Dana Scully finally opened her eyes enough to peek out when she couldn't find her sister's warmth. Melissa's sleeping bag was empty, and she was not in the tent.

"Melissa?" Her ragged whisper shattered the pre-dawn stillness, and she winced. Dad would kill them both if she woke him and he found Melissa gone on top of it. Dana slipped out of her inadequate sleeping bag and hurried over to the pile of clothes she'd laid out last evening. She donned shoes and a coat in seconds, chilled into high-gear, and then eased over her sleeping parents to the tent's zippered door.

Dawn was just brightening up the forest, sending beams of ruby light through the trees and setting fire to the lake. Dana looked from the black ashes of last night's cooking fire to the car parked several yards away. A squirrel chattered at her from its hiding place among the fir boughs spreading over her head, but he was her only companion this morning. "Melissa?"

Cold pierced her through the sweats she'd been sleeping in, and she wrapped her down jacket more tightly around herself before venturing down to the shores of Willow Lake. It was mid-October, high Indian Summer, and Dad always insisted on one last camping trip before winter buried the campgrounds. Today was Columbus Day, she recalled. Monday. They would drive back home late this afternoon. Then again, if she didn't find her sister soon they wouldn't be going anywhere.

So Dana trudged through piles of shriveled, dead leaves and ducked every now and then under low branches that leaned over the trail. Her breath formed thick clouds of steam in the blue twilight of early dawn. A bitter wind blew warmth away from her body, lifted her hair and breathed icy puffs against her neck. She huddled deeper into the down ski-jacket, bending her head against the cold. The lake was just ahead.

At the shore she paused, searching for signs that anyone had passed there. The sand before her was damp and smooth, telling her that no human footsteps had passed over it recently. Yet someone was there with her at the lakeshore. She stepped out of the concealing forest and approached a still figure sitting on a fallen tree trunk.

"Melissa?" The figure did not respond.

Dana walked around the tree and gazed at her sister with concern. The older girl's face was ashen, her lips blue. Her eyes were closed. Reaching out, Dana gently shook Melissa, gasping when her sister's eyes popped open unexpectedly. Melissa stared blindly ahead at the lake, as if completely unaware of her surroundings and the younger girl who was trying to get her attention.

"Melissa? What's wrong?"

Silently, the girl stood and brushed past Dana. She walked over the unblemished sand to the water's edge and began humming an eerie tune to herself. Dana gazed down at the sand, still unmarked even after her sister had passed over it. She followed Melissa to the shore, confused by the girl's odd trance. Tiny ripples lapped at Melissa's bare feet as she waited on the shore.

Dana noticed something stirring beneath the surface of the lake. Large circles spread outward from a point just yards away, then the water bubbled and frothed as a form rose out of the depths. She saw that it was a man who looked vaguely familiar, still in the water and gazing back at the two girls on the shore. Water rushed off his smooth limbs and splashed around his feet as he came to hover just above the lake. He stretched out his hand to Melissa, who responded by walking unhesitatingly into the water.

"Melissa! What are you doing?"

Her sister did not stop. She didn't pause, didn't look back — just left the younger sister standing alone on the sandy shore. Without hesitation Dana plunged into the lake, gasping at the shock of freezing water rising around her. Tremors shook her entire body as she struggled to reach her sister. Her fingers caught at Melissa's arm, tugged at the sleeve of Melissa's nightgown, but she did not have enough leverage to stop the older girl. Melissa went further, deeper, until only her head was above the surface of the water. Dana pushed deeper into the frigid lake, fighting both the cold and the drag of her soaked clothing.

"Melissa, stop!" she screamed. Her hands and feet burned from the cold, her breath came out in short, panicked bursts. The swirling water pulled at her, drawing her resisting body down into its black depths. She cried out in terror, seeing Melissa disappear beneath the rippling surface.

At the center of the lake, the man smiled. "You're next."

Dana's body went numb. Water closed over her head and she struggled just below the sunlit surface. She felt pressure against her chest, a burning in her lungs. She couldn't breathe! Hands pushed her down, held her under until her starved lungs gave up and she choked. Something unseen wrapped around her legs and pulled her away from the light, down into the black depths of the lake. She screamed as the water rushed around her, drowning her, and darkness claimed her.

~Q~

She gasped for air, her conscious mind forcing awareness upon her when the nightmare became too intense. Her heart still thundering in alarm, Scully swallowed down a sob. She held herself stiffly in the darkness as the tremors subsided. She heard birds outside her window, their soft chirps reassuring after the frightening sensation of drowning faded away.

Scully shivered and drew the blankets closer. She never told Mulder about any of the nightmares that cropped up around an investigation, didn't want him to know the depth of her distress during those times when their cases disturbed her sleep. Even so, he had a knack for seeing them anyway. So many times Mulder spoke her fears aloud, often making them both legitimate and reasonable with just a few words. She didn't have to tell him when she was afraid — he always seemed to know.

That fact made her wonder what he would say if she confided this morning's surrealistic visions to her quirky partner. He was difficult to predict sometimes, being equally likely to indulge in brotherly teasing about the sexual implications of a seductive man drowning her, or to reassure her that it was just a dream and everything would be all right. Which way would he lean this morning?

 _What difference does it make?_ she finally asked herself. It's not like she was actually planning to share any of this with Mulder. For ten seconds she closed her eyes and held still, awaiting the return of sweet slumber. Her thoughts whirled, though, twirling over the sister she'd lost both in real life and then again, just moments ago in the lake and so, sighing in defeat, Scully sat up. With sleep no longer an option, maybe a shower would help her warm up.

Thin grey light slanted through the lace curtains covering a leaded-glass window and spilled onto a highly polished oak floor. Dust motes danced in the pale rays. Scully glanced from her suitcase, still open and looking ransacked from last night, to the haphazard pile of travel-rumpled clothes she'd dropped on a rose-hued armchair. Flinging the quilt and blankets aside, she slipped out of the high brass bed and scrambled into a bathrobe hanging by the door. She moved quickly, trying to sweep up an armful of clothing, toiletries and underwear before the room's chill could penetrate her robe, but when she got to the door the items fell in a heap at her feet.

The door would not open.

She tugged violently, gripping the doorknob with both hands. The wood bowed out near the floor but remained firmly lodged under the doorjamb at the top. Even pushing down on the knob, hoping to lower the door enough so it could slip out from under the frame, didn't help. Scully was rewarded with fractional success followed by an ominous creak. Cursing softly, she let go of the knob and stared at the uncooperative door. It stayed just as she'd left it, top wedged under the lintel and bottom jutting into her room several inches. Scully pushed the bottom of the door back into place with her foot.

 _How do I get out of here?_

Stepping over her clothes she went to the window, brushing the curtains aside to peek through the small diamond panes. Her room was at the front of the house, an ancient attic room that had probably been home to a servant and was therefore unlikely to have the luxury of a balcony but it might be possible to climb out over a trellis or down a drainpipe. No such luck, however. The street curved three stories below, cobbled and rimmed with cramped sidewalks. Tall, narrow buildings pressed close together along the street like hobos around a fire. So much for climbing.

If not that, perhaps she might flag down someone passing in the street to let her hostess know the guest in the front attic was stuck in her room. But the only movement she could see was smoke drifting out of a couple of chimneys. A bird darted across the cobbled street. She let the curtains drop back into place. Obviously, the window wasn't an option.

Their rooms didn't have phones, either. She found the wireless phone she'd left charging at her bedside and punched in Mulder's number.

He answered sleepily. "Scully, it's quarter to six."

"I can't get my door open."

"What?"

"My door is stuck. I need you to help me get it open."

His sigh rattled over the static. "Just a minute."

A click signaled his disconnection. A few moments later he rapped against her door.

She stood near it and called out. "It isn't locked."

The door trembled slightly as he tried to open it. Then it shuddered from the impact of his shoulder slamming against the wood. She started to grasp the knob, thinking to help him, but thought better of it as a third blow rattled the window. Instead she kicked the forgotten pile of clothes aside when realizing the violence needed to shove the wood free of the lintel and open the door would propel him into the room and she didn't want him to trip. A final punishing blow crashed against the door, causing the top to pop free of the jamb with a horrendous rending screech.

Mulder stumbled into the room, colliding with Scully before she could get out of his way. Together they crashed to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs and startled gasps. She remained completely still, pinned by his weight and too stunned to do anything about it. Warmth seeped into her body, transmitted from the man and intensified by her own embarrassment at the situation. Shocked blue eyes met amused hazel.

His breath tickled her face. "Good morning."

Scully slid her hands up to push him away, then drew them back as quickly as if she'd touched fire. He wasn't wearing a shirt, a fact that had escaped her notice until that moment. A burning blush spread over her face, staining her cheeks crimson.

As for Mulder, he noted she fit under him perfectly. Too perfectly. Awareness of the press of her body against his sent tingles racing along his limbs and tripped his pulse into double time but the astonishment in her eyes as he looked down at her was comical enough to ward off any further wayward thoughts. Then she touched him and the amusement drained, her cool fingers sliding against his chest in an unconscious caress before she gasped and jerked them away. A tremor whipped through him, prompted more by her withdrawal than the touch that preceded it because with that touch, he knew she was feeling it, too.

Mulder tried to distract them both with humor, ever his fail-safe. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble to get me into your room, Scully. All you had to do was ask."

He lifted off her slightly, chuckling at the mortified expression on his partner's face as she tried to scoot away. His hands, braced on both sides of her shoulders, blocked her escape.

Her eyes darkened to near-violet. "Get off me."

Mulder considered teasing her a little more but changed his mind at the murderous glare she was directing at him. He couldn't avoid brushing against her once more as he pushed himself away, and grinned at the barely stifled intake of breath that betrayed her.

She missed his warmth immediately. As he'd pressed into her on his way up she'd felt a spark of intense awareness sizzle along every nerve in her body. That had quickly given way to the even greater shock of wanting him back. She suppressed a groan, cursing the bizarre circumstances that had awakened long-forgotten hormones. Why now? And for God's sake, why him?

He reached down a steady hand and pulled her quickly to her feet, his eyes dancing with boyish good humor. "Aren't you going to thank me?"

"For what — nearly killing me?" She was relieved to note that he had pulled on a battered pair of jeans before riding to her rescue.

"You were in the way!"

"Thanks," she grudgingly offered, "for knocking the wind out of me."

"That's it?" he demanded. "I sacrificed sleep to break you out of here. You still owe me."

Her eyes flashed. "I'd say you still owe _me_. How many times have I been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night because of you?"

"That's different," he countered.

"How so?"

"Desperate times, desperate measures ... but this wasn't an emergency."

"Says who?"

"This couldn't have waited another thirty minutes?"

She rolled her eyes. "I was cold. I wanted a shower. So I woke you up thirty minutes early — in terms of favors this is microscopic, Mulder."

He crossed his arms and smirked. "I say you owe me something, Scully. Nothing comes for free, you know."

"Just how do you expect me to repay you?" She had to make a conscious effort to keep her eyes off his chest, the sight of his arms resting there providing a distraction that was difficult to ignore.

"I don't know ... maybe with a kiss?"

Oh, that sure wasn't helping her keep her mind off of baser things! He knew. Glancing up at him, she knew he knew. The bastard. She imagined in that moment fifteen different, painful ways to kill him. Slow and agonizing. Scully's work as a pathologist had supplied her with a few horrific yet creative ideas, and he deserved to suffer all of them for this. But then she thought of an even better way to get even and this way wasn't even illegal. Making no effort to hide her devious intention, Scully smiled sweetly and nodded. "Okay."

Her quick agreement threw him completely. "What?"

"You can kiss me."

His eyes met hers, still surprised, but seeing the invitation there he leaned forward. What would it be like, this first touch of their mouths? He indulged in a moment of fantasy, imagining her lips soft and warm under his. Their breaths mingled, their eyes locked together as Mulder covered the final distance between them. At the last second she turned her head; his lips landed on her cheek. The bubble burst. He realized she'd turned the tables on him and hearing her muffled laughter, Mulder drew back and tapped her lightly on the nose. "That's the last time I come charging to your rescue like some misguided knight. Next time you're on your own."

"I'll take my chances," she murmured, still enjoying that moment of triumph, when the shoe had been on the other foot.

He backed up a step, asking mischievously, "So, who gets the first shower?"

"Don't even think about it," she warned.

His own laughter floated back to her as he returned to his own room. "See you at breakfast, Scully."

.

 **Glen Coe Mountain Rescue Post  
Achnambeithach**

William Stark was not particularly pleased to see his work being questioned by foreigners. The stout Constable sat behind his ancient, institutionally-provided desk and defended his territory with all the bluster and rage of a wronged aristocrat: which is to say, his icy control was impressive. "We handled the investigation as carefully and professionally as you'd expect for any citizen of the United Kingdom. I fail to understand why the United States has sent you two here to question our approach."

"We're not questioning your approach, sir." Scully tapped one delicate finger against the case-file she'd first read two days ago in DC. Though the facts were bare, that was due more to a lack of evidence rather than expertise. "In fact, it's doubtful that Agent Mulder and I will uncover anything you haven't already recorded in your reports."

Aside from an enraged twitch here and there, the Constable kept himself well in check even as he found himself repeating the question yet again. "Then why are you here?"

Sharing a loaded glance, Mulder nodded and Scully drew a fortifying breath as she cracked open the proverbial can of worms. "In many ways, our presence here began as just an exercise to placate Ms. Campbell's parents."

"Aye, that's what has me in a conundrum. You say that the girl's parents are Scottish themselves, yet they aren't satisfied with the work of their own countrymen. They've had you sent here to do my work for me."

"I don't think their request for the FBI to assist should be construed as a lack of faith in your ability to do the job correctly." Mulder leaned forward to drive his point home. "They've lost their only daughter and so far no one's been able to provide them with an explanation. Turning to us was merely the act of desperate parents willing to explore any avenue if it means they could get their daughter back safely."

Stark sighed, loosing some of his indignation. "Then what do they want? What do _you_ want?"

This was the part that Mulder had stumbled upon shortly after snooping across Kersch's desk two days ago. Most of the arrangements had already been made with the exception of assigning and sending out agents, and indeed, AD Kersch initially assigned the dead-end case as punishment. But when Mulder started researching the loch in question, that's when things got ... interesting.

"The FBI staffs Legat offices around the world, established to assist local law enforcement agencies with limited resources. In addition to Ms. Campbell's disappearance, we've become aware of several additional disappearances at the same location. That's why the FBI is offering assistance. The investigation is yours, we're just here to lend support in case there's a link between these disappearances."

"We've read your reports," Scully added. "We'd just like a few minutes of your time to discuss your impressions of Ms. Campbell's disappearance, to see if you have anything new to add to the file. We'll look around, conduct a few secondary interviews. As Agent Mulder said, we're looking for links between the various cases."

He pushed back, his chair squeaking loudly. "I've nothing new to add. The girl walked to Loch Gnathaigh on the morning of September 16th. When she didn't return for supper at the Kingshouse, where she'd taken a room, the proprietor —Mrs. McNeil— became concerned and rang me. Just before Mrs. McNeil rang, I received a message from Robert Martin that a Peugeot was left sitting on the A82 at the turnout for Loch Gnathaigh. Robert is the other Constable posted here in Glencoe. When Mrs. McNeil told me the girl had a Peugeot, I put two and two together and opened an investigation."

"And you found no physical evidence?" Mulder prompted.

"Nothing. Robert and I went out to the Loch the next morning. The only thing we found was a knapsack and two foot impressions in the mud. They appeared to be from a woman's hiking shoe. We processed the car, found nothing out of the ordinary, and finally returned it to Glasgow two weeks ago."

"What direction were the impressions facing?" Mulder wanted to know.

"They were facing the water. She was standing right on the shore at some point. We found another faint footprint, with the same tread, on the footpath leading in but nothing going the other direction."

"What about the backpack," Scully inquired.

Stark opened the file he'd pulled out when they'd arrived. "Here." He handed her a typed form listing all the physical evidence gathered from the scene. "She left behind her car, her wallet, her dinner, and her flight reservation. It seems to me that she'd have taken at least some of those items with her if she had planned on disappearing."

"Were you able to discern her activity prior to her trip to the lake that day?"

Stark nodded. "She had a light meal here in Glencoe at the Hotel, about 11:00, purchased with a traveler's cheque. We know she spent about two hours at the Visitor Centre, where she purchased a series of postcards and a roll of film. The sales clerk there remembered her. As near as we can guess, she left the Visitor Centre at about 13:00 and drove over to the Moor. Our estimate is she'd have reached Loch Gnathaigh by 15:00. That's all we know."

Scully frowned. "You say she bought film? I don't see either film or a camera listed here among the items recovered from the Loch."

"Aye," Stark confirmed. "We never found the camera or the film. I'd guess they're with her, wherever she is. Maybe she got a photo of the suspect and he made sure we wouldn't find it."

"Would it be all right if we spoke to Mrs. McNeil?"

The Constable leaned back with another squeak. "I've no problem with it. She'll tell you everything you want to know and more besides." Then he parted his lips slightly, revealing pearly teeth in remarkably good condition. It was not exactly a smile. "And I'll wish you God-speed. You'll need it. Mrs. McNeil's theory of the crime is rather ... unorthodox, to say the least."


	4. Voice of the Ancient Bard

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to those of you reading, marking this a 'favorite' already and leaving reviews. Getting positive feedback from readers is wonderful. :)

* * *

 _Youth of delight, come hither,  
And see the opening morn,  
Image of truth new-born.  
Doubt is fled and clouds of reason,  
Dark disputes and artful teasing.  
Folly is an endless maze,  
Tangled roots perplex her ways,  
How many have fallen there!  
They stumble all night over bones of the dead,  
And feel they know not what but care,  
And wish to lead others when they should be led._

The Voice of the Ancient Bard

—William Blake—

* * *

Voice of the Ancient Bard

* * *

.

 **Achnacon  
Glencoe, Scotland  
15:23**

The cottage sat in the heart of the Glen, dwarfed by the crags that soared up behind it. A mixture of evergreen and rowan trees flanked the little building's left side, and on its right one of the Glen's many burns gurgled merrily. It looked much like every other cottage in the Scottish countryside: two stories, white-washed stone, slate roof, a chimney at each end, and two large windows balanced by a bright red door. The driveway up to the house was little more than a worn track slithering through the grass on its way past a tiny garden and over the burn. This was Achnacon, now home to only one family and all that remained of a series of tiny villages that had once dotted the hills of Glen Coe.

Mulder turned off of the A82 and felt the black-top's smooth passage give way to the jostling of unpaved grass. The track took them around the cottage to a wider place behind it where one car was parked, out of sight from the tourists passing by below on the highway. The other car was a 'Mini,' a rusted scrap of a car not much larger than a child's Radio Flyer wagon. Its two bulbous headlamps stared out at the highway with all the longing of an old man long past his prime.

Climbing out of the passenger side, Scully arched her back in an effort to work out the kinks brought on by yesterday's thirteen hours of traveling and today's five hours of jet-lag, then took in her surroundings. The cottage stood on the valley floor, the only place where the rugged glen tolerated trees to grow freely. Mountains such as only Scotland could boast soared above the River Coe as it rushed below, then curved eastward and accompanied the river all the way to its joining with the River Etive at the far end of the valley. These mountains might not be so tall as the US Rockies, but where they lacked height they more than made up for it in fierce beauty. A thousand shades of velvety green, brown, rose and lavender dappled the slopes, clothed them in autumn finery. Like a debutante flirting behind her fan, the weak October sun splashed brilliant light across the jagged sides of the mountains in a teasing dance that revealed as much as the answering shadows concealed.

Mulder stepped out of the cramped Vauxhall next, lingering a moment to savor the view. A cool breeze lifted his hair and brushed against his skin, welcome relief after so many hours of confinement. Scully's uncharacteristically restless activity caught his eye, and he found himself watching his partner stretch out with feline grace, admiring the way her copper-colored hair caught fire under the Highland sun.

She noticed his attention and straightened self-consciously, a light blush staining her cheeks. Her arms dangled once more at her sides as her eyes strayed back to the river. "Tell me why we're here again?"

The moment was past. "Do you want me to go all the way back to the beginning?" Mulder shot back with a devilish grin, echoing a question she'd once teased him with.

"No, just the part about why we're _here_." She looked down the glen, inhaled the fresh, uncivilized air, and sighed appreciatively. "Not that I object to being here, mind you."

He nodded in agreement to that. "Yeah, following dead-end leads through the wilds of Scotland sure beats phoning for dead-end leads in a windowless dungeon." He finally stepped away from the car, pulling his suit coat out of the back seat and slipping his arms into its confining wool as a matter of habit. They were both dressed in their regular work clothes —suits, polished shoes, carefully styled hair— despite the fact that they were here in a marginally official capacity.

In reply to Scully's query, he repeated the words of Mrs. McNeil, the Innkeeper at Kingshouse. "Eva Campbell's last known location was Loch Gnathaigh, on Rannoch Moor, and the only expert on the Moor and all its lore around here is Laura MacDonald."

Scully wrinkled her nose at him, remembering the long incomprehensible strings of letters from their Tourist Map. One name in particular had occupied her for twenty minutes: Achnambeithach, the village where the Mountain Rescue service was located. Mulder had solved the riddle of it with a superior smirk: _ach-nam-_ bay _-ah_. "How on earth are you able to pronounce those names? They're all consonants!"

"Easy. Just assume one syllable for each set of vowels."

"Kind of like German," she observed.

"Only not so guttural," he concluded. "It's crude but effective."

She chuckled. "Until a native speaker sets you straight." And she was praying that someone would. Mulder was the consummate know-it-all, a man with a maddening tendency to remember every picayune detail about everything and bring them up later, one by one, to throw competitors off their stride. Sometimes he did it to her too, but she recognized that in her case it was less about competition and more about showing off. His boyish bids for her approval charmed her but even so, sometimes Scully wanted nothing more than to see Mulder put firmly in his place by a sharp-witted native. Scotland held a great deal of promise.

They turned in unison from the panorama the glen had laid out before them and worked their way through ankle-high grass to the scarlet door of the cottage. A few chickens squawked irritably as they were pushed aside. Lying in a patch of sunlight under a window, a Border collie raised its head to watch the two American strangers approach the house. It thumped its tail once in greeting before returning to its nap with a canine sigh. Mulder rapped on a door that looked younger than its fifty years only because someone had concealed its flaws under a cosmetic veneer of blazing red paint. The cracks and chips beneath the red gave the wood a lumpy surface.

Only a moment later the door retreated on creaking hinges, revealing a middle-aged woman of middling height. Her nut-brown hair was swept up into a casual knot, the sleeves of her chambray shirt rolled up to her elbows, and a large, flour-dusted apron covered the rest of her. She raised her brows at the sight of such well-dressed foreigners standing at her door.

"Aye?"

Mulder started without hesitation. "Laura MacDonald?"

The woman shook her head. "No. I'm Beth Stewart."

"We're looking for Laura MacDonald. We were told that she lives here."

"You're American." She seemed more surprised by their appearance than their origin. "Government people?"

Scully shot Mulder an amused glance before replying. "Yes, I'm Special Agent Scully and this is Agent Mulder. We're with the United States' Federal Bureau of Investigation, working out of our legal attaché office in London." She had pulled a small leather wallet out of a pocket and now held it up for Beth Stewart to examine her credentials. Beth's eyes flicked over it briefly before returning to Scully's. "We're here because a United States citizen disappeared nearby and her parents asked for help. Mrs. McNeil at Kingshouse Inn suggested Ms. MacDonald might have some information that will help in the inquiry."

The woman nodded. "Oh, aye. The Campbell lass. We heard about that. Poor girl vanished off the Moor. Some folks are blaming the fairies." She rolled her eyes comically. "Can you imagine that?"

Dana Scully covered a grin with a disapproving frown. "Not at all."

Mulder, not missing the sparkle in Scully's eyes, rewarded her with a sour scowl. "Does Ms. MacDonald live here?"

"Aye. She's me mum." Beth Stewart stood back and gestured for them to enter. "Come in, then. She'll be delighted to speak with you, especially about that. 'Tis the only thing she talks about since it started."

The two agents passed through the door and found themselves standing in a narrow hallway. The walls were smooth white plaster, the floorboards polished sunny brown. A simple mirror and bench stood along the right wall, while on the other side a plain staircase rose to the second floor. The white paint reflected morning sunlight brilliantly as long as the door remained open. As soon as the woman closed it, however, the hallway fell into gloom.

She turned and opened a door on the left. "Take a seat. I'll send Mum right in. Will you take a cup of tea?"

"Please." Scully sat on a hard, narrow sofa, crossing her legs as if she were a Victorian lady making a social call. She watched Mulder wandering through the room, lightly touching this or gazing intently at that. Shoelaces and aquarium figurines: observing the minutia of everyday life was one of his gifts and, because it had benefited them both at various times, it was something she did not begrudge him in the least. She'd lost count of the number of times when he'd leaped to a brilliant conclusion after ruminating on some unimportant object he'd noticed somewhere.

Moving around in small irregular circles, Mulder glanced around the small, dusty sitting room, knowing that it was probably the pride of the household. The furniture was in surprisingly good condition considering its age — he guessed it had to be at least forty years old. The room boasted a ruby red sofa and armchair with thin cushions and skeletal legs. Various tables and lamps occupied the corners. A white fireplace took up the entire side wall, its mantle covered with knickknacks of every description. They were both surprised to note a small peat fire burning on the hearth, its heat welcome in the chilly room.

"This is me mum," Beth announced briskly. "Laura MacDonald." She led a wizened sprite of a woman into the room by the arm, helping her to sit next to Scully. "Mum, these two Americans are here about that Campbell lass. Ye ken the one that went missing on the Moor last month?"

"The Campbell? Aye!" The tiny woman gathered an enormous wool sweater about herself and turned alert grey eyes onto Scully. Her silver hair was twisted into two long braids and pinned around her head like a crown.

Beth chuckled. "Now don't be telling tales, Mum, 'though I expect that's why they're here. I'll bring in the tea."

Mulder began cautiously. "Mrs. McNeil over at the Kingshouse Inn told us that you might be able to shed some light on what happened to Eva Campbell."

"Oh, aye!" She flashed them a near-toothless grin. " 'Twas the Kelpie!"

Scully leaned forward, brows raised in guarded bewilderment. Even Mulder was looking surprised. "The Kelpie?"

"Aye! A Kelpie is a spirit that lives in the loch. Not all lochs have one, but what Kelpies there are ye must watch out for. They like to drown those who aren't careful."

His partner turned to him wearing a priceless expression of disbelief. "Mulder?"

Ignoring her, he asked the elderly woman, "So, a Kelpie drowns its victims?"

"Some do. Not all of them. Some appear as a horse by the water. Those we call _Each Uisge_ — the Water Horse — and if a man should get onto his back, the Each Uisge will rush into the water an' drown the poor soul. When I was a lass, one of me father's friends found a lovely bridle laying by the loch. 'Twas said it was dropped by a Kelpie."

Scully rolled her eyes and sat back with a little groan. Mulder, naturally, was thoroughly captivated.

The elderly woman lowered her voice, as if imparting a particularly scandalous secret. "But the Kelpie at Loch Gnathaigh is different from the rest. It doesn't kill like the others do. Me mum warned me about the Kelpie at the Haunted Loch when I was just a lass myself."

His rapt attention already spurring her onwards, Laura McDonald didn't even need Mulder to ask "what was the warning?" Yet the fact that he did caused her to lean forward even more eagerly to regale her audience.

"Long ago, the Kelpie in Loch Gnathaigh heard the most heavenly singing coming from the Muir. He came out of the water to see what it was and he saw a bonny lass walking along the shore, singing to herself. She had eyes the color of the heather and hair like fire. Aye, she was so bonny that immediately he fell in love with her. He took the form of a lad and wooed her. She agreed to become his wife and they lived in the loch together in happiness for many years.

"But one morning the lass realized that she missed her kin. She wanted to go back to see them once more. The Kelpie wasn't pleased to let her go, but because he loved her he allowed she might go so long as she promised to return in three days. She agreed and off she went. When she arrived home her parents were overjoyed and all was well until the third morning, when she tried to return to the loch. Her parents wouldn't let her leave them again. Her brothers locked her in the cellar and wouldn't let her out, 'though she begged and pleaded for hours. They all went to bed, thinking that her enchantment would wear off in time.

"When they rose in the morning, she was quiet. They thought that she must have been sleeping so they didn't disturb her. 'She'll be all right again if we give her the time,' they said. Her mum fixed up her auld bed and prepared a steaming bowl o' stir-about for when she awoke. But hours passed and still she made not a sound. In time her brothers and her Dad began to fash — to worry. Had she gotten out somehow? They went down to the cellar to have a look at her, and to their horror they saw that she was dead!

"Such a keening did they raise over her that all the people of the village heard them and came to see what was the matter. One wise auld woman looked at the lass and saw the water weeds still tangled in her hair. The wise one cried out, 'Och! She was with a kelpie, wasn't she?' Her parents answered that, aye, she had been with the kelpie at Loch Gnathaigh —'though it wasn't called Gnathaigh then— and that she had come back to them after being gone for so many years. They explained how they had locked her in the cellar to keep her from returning to the loch.

" 'Och!' the auld woman cried. 'You have killed her yourselves, then! Didn't you know that once a lass has been in the loch with a kelpie, she can never live on land again? 'Twas a spell he cast upon her that allowed her to return to you. Didn't she beg and plead with you to let her go back? Sure, he would have made her promise to return to him before the spell wore off! And you didn't let her go! Och! ye poor fools!' And so the poor family of the lass took the girl back to the loch, to bury her right near the place where the Kelpie first saw her.

"Now, the Kelpie had begun to fash when his wife didn't return to him after three days. He took the form of a lad and walked the Muir, calling for her. His sad voice was taken up by the wind and carried away. Sometimes the wind carries it back again, and ye can hear him calling out for her in his grief. On the fifth day he saw her family lay her to rest on the Muir. Then he realized what had happened, and his fury was a frightful thing! He vowed revenge on the daughters of men. He declared from that time forward, he would steal any lass who strayed near his loch.

"That is the tale me mum told me when I was a lass, and every lass kens the story. The Kelpie is still lonely. It finds a bonny lass and tries to seduce her. It appears as a handsome lad and overpowers the lassies, then it takes them into the loch with it. Once they go with him they are never seen again.

" 'Tis said that no lass can refuse him once they look upon him. 'Tis said his eyes are like coals, black as spades, and his grieving soul is as dark as the raven's wing. He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to — all he must do is get a lass to look into his eyes." The old woman nodded.

Scully couldn't resist. "Let me guess — he only goes after virgins?"

"Nay! Any woman may fall under his spell. Aye, even you!"

Dana Scully, born skeptic, just shook her head and sent Mulder one of her patented looks. Lips slightly pursed, brows raised and eyes glancing at him sideways, this was the one she used when she couldn't decide between ' _what are we doing here?_ ', and ' _do you honestly expect me to believe this?_ ' Once she'd speared a shaky witness in a bowling alley with that unmerciful expression of cynical impatience. "I can tell she doesn't believe me. It's that look in her eyes." As the flustered man escaped to the shoe rental counter, Mulder had turned to his partner. "What _is_ that look, Scully?" he'd asked in wry amusement. "After four years you should know exactly what it is," she'd shot back tartly. Sometimes, those looks she pinned him with made him smile, as if they were sharing a private joke.

He grinned now and ducked his head. "Better look out, Scully. The Kelpie might get you!"

She snorted.

"Ah, she's told you about the Kelpie, aye?" Beth entered the sitting room bearing a large silver tray laden with snacks and a porcelain tea service.

" 'Tis madness, nonsense meant for unruly children." She set out delicate cups and saucers with practiced efficiency before pouring the steaming golden liquid into each. As she handed a cup to Scully and Mulder, she offered them sugar and milk. A smaller tray bearing assorted tarts, shortbread cookies and tiny triangles of toast with melted cheese appeared next. When her mother and guests were settled she took a seat across from Mulder and took a sip of tea, indicating that they should all begin.

"You tell stories like that to kids?" Mulder marveled with a grin.

"Can you think of a better way to keep them away from the lochs and out of the burns?" Beth countered cordially. "Aye, it works, too, but with one unfortunate result — it makes the wee ones grow up superstitious, like me mum over there."

Scully chuckled, clearly in agreement. "So much for Kelpies, Mulder."

He was undeterred. "What makes your mother an expert on the lochs, then, Mrs. Stewart? If it isn't her familiarity with Kelpies?"

The old woman sat up straighter, recovering dignity lost when they'd begun speaking around her. "Don't you be talking about me as if I were yet a bairn. 'Tis my body that's given way to age, not my mind!" She leveled a pointed glare at her daughter.

Satisfied that she had them all suitably chastened, she turned to Mulder. "I've lived my entire life here in the Glen, and didn't I grow up in Glen Lyon, on the other side of the Moor? I've been all over the Moor, aye, seen every loch with my own eyes. Can any of you say the same? Nay, you can not. 'Tis more than fairy stories I ken about the lochs and the Moor. 'Tis the land itself I've kent since I was a lass. Aye." She nodded proudly. "No one kens it better."

Scully smiled at the old woman's tirade, her respect increasing a notch or two as she realized Laura MacDonald's potential. "Could the Campbell girl have fallen into Loch—" here she hesitated, stumbling over the Gaelic. "Gnathaigh, is it?" What she said came out sounding something like ' _ga-_ _ **na**_ _-theg_.'

Beth chuckled at the mutilation. "Nay. And 'tis said like this: **_grah_** _-hay_."

Scully blinked. "Where does the 'r' come from?"

"No one ever accused the Gaelic of making sense," Laura joked, but then she sobered. "Aye, the lass _might_ have fallen in. Her knapsack was still there, aye? But her body isn't there where it should be."

"They dredged the loch when she went missing," Beth explained. "They found no trace of her. If she fell in, she might have become entangled in something at the bottom, but she would have had to get to the center of the loch to do so. And she couldn't have done that without swimming — 'tis a large loch, but quite shallow near the shore."

"Kidnapping, then?" Scully suggested next. "Maybe someone saw her there alone and took advantage of the situation."

"That's what most folks 'round here believe," Beth agreed. "We aren't Glasgow, after all, but such things do happen. Even here. All it takes is a stranger, aye? Lord kens what the poor lass is going through if she's even still alive."

"But she was alone at the loch, aye?" Laura interjected impatiently. "There wasn't a struggle, no foot prints but her own. And she isn't the first."

Scully nodded, agreeing on the most likely explanation. "How many others are you aware of?" She slanted a worried glance at Mulder, who was also paying closer attention.

"Well, there have been three disappearances at the loch in the last few months. Two were local lasses. The Campbell lass is the fourth."

"Aye, but Shannon McCollough came back," Laura chimed in, delighting in the reaction of her daughter to this latest tidbit.

Beth Stewart stiffened, looking uncomfortable, and glared at her mother. "You read that in the _Sun_ , for heaven's sake. 'Tis all lies!"

Scully recognized the name of Britain's notorious tabloid and frowned, turning from rational Beth to her spirited mother, wondering at their curious disagreement. Beth was now looking downright troubled, while Laura was nearly crowing in delight at having gotten the best of her daughter at last.

"Lies, is it? Did you not speak with Dr. Kinley himself? You heard what he said, just the same as we all did! You saw the photographs, Beth!"

"I did no such thing!" Beth shot back sharply.

"What photographs?" Mulder broke in.

"The ones Dr. Kinley gave to the _Sun_. The ones of Shannon McCollough after she came back from the loch. Aye, you can't explain _that_ away so easily, can you?" She looked over at Beth triumphantly.

Scully noted Beth's pallor, asking with concern, "What?" She didn't really know what she was asking about, Beth's health or the thing she couldn't explain.

Laura MacDonald pinned each of them with her hazy gray eyes. "Shannon McCollough went missing for three months. When she came back she said she'd been in the loch with a man who wasn't a man. No one believed her. They all thought she was tetched in the head. But then the doctors found the most amazing thing, and no one can explain it. _No_ one."

"What did they find," Mulder asked.

"Shannon McCollough has gills. Like a fish."


End file.
